gaze of the physician and left the guards to conduct him to his lodging.
There was really nothing else to do. It was a risk, of course. Tomaso
was well known. He had the confidence of the King himself. But the
situation was difficult. Prince John, who was usually in straits despite
his father's generosity, had hinted to Gregory lately that he meant to
inquire in person about the reported making of gold in the Temple. Could
he have guessed somehow that two chests of ingots from a Cadiz galley
had come to Temple Assheton instead of to the King's treasury? Or did he
believe the story of the making of gold?
Gregory was but too certain that if John found any treasure of doubtful
title he would seize it, and he was acutely unhappy. However, if Tomaso
possessed the secret--or some other secret of value--there was yet a
chance to save the Cadiz ingots. If this plan failed the scapegoat would
not be a Templar.
Tomaso knew what was passing in his enemy's mind, not through any
supernatural means, but by his knowledge of human nature. He was aware,
as he lay on his narrow straw bed, that his life was in imminent
danger. No one knew where he was; no message could reach his friends. A
discredited wizard could count on no popular sympathy. The record of his
studies for many years would vanish like the wind-blown candle-flame.
Yet after some hours of wakefulness he slept, as tranquilly as a child.
A red-headed youth in the dress of a clerk, who was to have met Tomaso
on the morrow, waited for him in vain. On the second day he started in
search of his old friend, and weary and mud-bespattered, came at last to
Temple Assheton. On the road he fell in with Swart the drover, who told
him of the reported alchemy. “Gold would be common as fodder if any man
could make it,” Swart growled, “and when a man's wise beyond others in
the art of healing, 'tis wicked folly to burn him alive for't.”
Padraig's face lost every trace of color. “W-who says that?”
“The crows and herons, I suppose,” said the drover coolly. “Anyhow none
of the folk in the village know where the story started, and nobody but
a bird on the wing could see over those walls. 'Tis said that ten days
hence, if the old doctor don't make gold for them, they'll burn him
for a wizard. Now that's no sense, for if he could make gold he'd be a
wizard no bounds, and they'd not burn him then, I reckon.”
Padraig looked down the valley at the tender gold-green grass and the
snowdrift apple-boughs of spring, It seemed impossible that those grim
gray walls held within them this cruel and implacable spirit. “Can I
get a trustworthy messenger?” he asked. “I would send a letter to the
Master's friends.”
With the ready understanding of men who see and judge strange faces
constantly, Swart and Padraig had taken each other's measure and been
satisfied. “My nephew Hod will go,” Swart answered. Hod was the son of
the farmer whose house Tomaso had visited.
Padraig was busy with tablets and inkhorn. He folded and sealed his
note, written in the clear stubbed hand of the monasteries. “I am
Padraig,” he said, “a scribe of the Irish Benedictines. If the Master
comes to harm there will be a heavy reckoning, but that will come too
late. I will rescue him or die with him--are you with me?”
Swart pulled at his huge beard. “The Swarts of Aschenrugge,” he said,
“have dwelt too long in these parts to bow neck to a Templar. Hod shall
ride with the letter, and if it be thy choice to risk thine own life for
thy master's I've no call to betray thee.”
A dark-browed yokel came to the door with the bridle of Swart's best
horse over his arm. “Take this,” Padraig directed, “to Robert Edrupt,
the wool merchant at Long Lea near Stratton. If he be from home give it
to his wife Barbara and tell her to open and read it. She is wise and
will do what is right. Here is money--all I have--but you shall be paid
well when the errand is done; I have asked Edrupt to see to that.”
Hod stuck his thumbs in his belt. “Put up thy money,” he muttered. “The
old doctor he cured our Cicely, he did.”
The messenger gone, Padraig went straight to the Temple and asked to
see the Preceptor. Gregory listened at first with suspicion, then with
wonder, to what the stranger told. It seemed that, hearing that a famous
alchemist was at work in the Temple, he had come to crave the privilege
of acting as his servant. It was, he said, absolutely necessary that
such a master should have a disciple at hand for the actual work, and be
left undisturbed in meditation meanwhile.
“Is this necessary to the making of gold?” asked Gregory.
“Surely,” Padraig assured him. “The pupil cannot do the work of the
master, the master must not be compelled to labor as the pupil. It
is written in our books--Feliciter is sapit, qui periculo alieno
sapit--Those are fortunate who learn at the risk of another,--and again,
He is wise who profits by others' folly.”
Gregory eyed the stranger warily, but in Padraig's blue eyes he saw only
childlike innocence and fanatical zeal. If a madman, he was a useful
one. By his help the experiments could be carried on without imperiling
any Templar. He directed a page to show Padraig the way to Tomaso's
chamber.
“My son!” said the physician as he lifted his eyes from his writing and
saw who was in the doorway, “how came you here?”
“I came to be with you, Master,” Padraig answered with a glance behind
him to make sure the page was gone, “to rescue you if I can. What else
could I have done?”
Then he related his conversation with Gregory. “Through a drover of this
place who is our friend,” he ended, “I have sent word to Robert Edrupt
asking him to get word of this to the King or to the Bishop. But if help
does not come in time--”
“Che sara sara (What will be, will be),” said Tomaso coolly. “I have
made a fair copy of these writings in the hope that I might send them to
Brother Basil.”
Padraig knelt at the physician's feet, his beseeching eyes raised to the
kindly, serene old face. “Master Tomaso,” he stammered, “they shall not
do this thing--I cannot b-bear it! We have--we have the formula for the
Apples of Sodom, and--and other things. They would give more than gold
for that knowledge.”
Tomaso laid a gentle hand upon the young shoulder. “My dear son,” he
said, “when we learned the secrets of Archiater--those secrets which
mean death--we promised one another, all of us, never to use them save
to the glory of God and the honor of our land. Which of these, think
you, would be served by lending them to the evil plots of a traitor?”
Padraig caught the hand of his master in both his own. “It is beyond
endurance!” he cried piteously.
“I have knowledge,” Tomaso went on, “that this Gregory is partly pledged
to the faction of Prince John. The Templars have no country, but they
think, with some reason, that they can bend John to their purposes. What
would they do, with the power these fires of Tophet would give them?
Padraig, there is no safety in the breaking of a pledge.”
A thought came into the boy's mind, and a wild hope with it. “Master
Tomaso,” he cried, “if I can find a way to use our knowledge without
breaking the pledge, will you give me my way?”
The Paduan looked long into the uplifted eager face. “It is good to
be so loved,” he said. “I will trust you. Yet grieve not, whatever
comes,--the stars are my fortress, God is my lamp. The bridge to eternal
life is very short.”
Padraig's cell was the one just below, and the window looked out across
the moors. Chin on his crossed arms, he pondered long under the stars.
The next day he informed the Preceptor that the alchemist was ready to
begin the making of Spanish gold, and must on no account be disturbed.
He showed Gregory the formula. It was not very easy to understand, but
it was impressive. Cockatrice eggs were to be placed carefully in a nest
in a stone walled underground chamber, which must be sealed from the
outer air when all was ready. Snakes and toads brooding thereon would in
time hatch out baby monsters--creatures with cocks' heads and the tails
and wings of dragons. Their look was sure death, but they could be
poisoned by a draught compounded of agrimony, dill and vervain. This
must be prepared beforehand and left in a bason where the cockatrice
when hatched would find and drink of it. When all were dead they were to
be brayed in a mortar with other necessary ingredients. When the stars
indicated that the fortunate hour was at hand, the compound was to be
heated in a crucible over a large brazier, covered with a layer of chaff
to absorb the poisonous gases that arose. That which remained in the
crucible would be pure gold.
“'Tis a fearsome business,” said Padraig naively, “for men hate
wizards.”
“Let them hate, if they fear us as well,” muttered Gregory poring over
the mysterious phrases. Visions arose in his mind of a Grand Master
whose power should have no limit, whom Kings must serve and Sultans
fear. Nay, not only should the Holy Temple be recovered, but it should
be built anew, overlaid with gold as in Solomon's day. He called a
steward and ordered him to fit up a cellar, formerly a passage into the
vaults of the oldest part of the building, with all needful utensils.
Braziers, crucibles, retorts and all the usual materials in the way of
metals and powders were there, but of course, no cockatrice eggs.
“He brought these from Andalusia,” said Padraig, showing seven small
eggs mottled with crimson and black in a medicine box. Gregory touched
one very gingerly. They were in fact waxen shells filled with volatile
liquids, and Padraig had spent most of the night preparing them. He
explained that they were no larger than frogs' eggs when he first had
them,--which was perfectly true, the wax having been carried in the form
of balls.
Sulphurous odors came from the cellar where the eggs were supposed to
be hatching in their nest. An unwary hound sniffing about the door got
a throatful of the stinging smoke and fled yowling. Hydrochloric acid,
vitriol and nitre-glycerine are kittle things to meddle with, and the
place was religiously avoided.
From the too free tongue of a cellarer one night Padraig learned
that this chamber adjoined the treasure-vaults of the Temple, but the
communicating door had been walled up. When the gold should be ready it
could be conveyed into the treasury direct, by reopening this doorway.
One evening Prince John rode up to the gate with a company of Norman
men-at-arms and a few courtiers. It was understood that he had come to
investigate the reputed sorceries. On the same day three strangers came
into the village and tarried at Swart's house on Aschenrugge. He often
lodged travelers for a night, being near the highway. Padraig, spying
a white signal on the giant ash which gave the ridge its name, told the
impatient Preceptor that the hour was at hand.
Among the villagers it was said that the physician and his disciple were
guarded closely night and day, and that the Paduan certainly would be
burned at the stake if he did not succeed in making gold. Country folk
had seen the stake set up and the faggots piled. In case the wizard
proved a false prophet Gregory meant to make the execution as public as
possible.
Padraig explained that the final trial must take place inter canis et
lupus--between dog and wolf--in that hour which is neither daylight
nor dark. As dusk fell the knights and esquires of the Temple ranged
themselves in orderly ranks along the walls, at some distance from the
door of the underground chamber. The low archway was now open; the
glow of a brazier showed red against the rear wall. Torches lighted the
stone-paved yard, and beyond the open gate the white faces of peasants
crowded, awe-stricken and expectant. When the physician was brought out
by the guards to a seat near the stake, the sobs of a woman were heard
in the outer darkness. Padraig, following, cast a swift glance through
the gate and saw the dim shapes of horsemen outlined against the sky.
Last of all appeared the Preceptor and Prince John with their immediate
followers, and took their seats midway in the ranks of onlookers,
directly opposite the door, where they could see every stage of the
proceedings. Gregory, furtively scanning the face of the physician, saw
therein not a sign of fear. Padraig advanced into the open space before
the cellar, and bowed to Prince John and the Preceptor. Then from a
niche within the door of the chamber he lifted a large crucible, and a
siffle of indrawn breath was heard in the crowd as he carried it toward
the fire. Gathering pitchy twigs and chaff from a heap of fuel he packed
them deftly into the open top, and set the jar on the brazier, returning
then to the side of Tomaso.
The minutes passed but slowly. The nerves of all the spectators were
strung to the snapping-point. Gregory finally began to explain to Prince
John, who looked half curious and half skeptical,--
“This crucible, your Grace, is now throwing off the vapors generated by
fervent heat. When these have been absorbed by the chaff above, the gold
will be found beneath. The possibilities of this priceless formula are
not as yet altogether known. We do not know what may come to light. You
may be astounded--”
The chaff in the crucible caught fire from a wisp that thrust up into it
from the brazier, flared up of a sudden and lighted every corner of the
old cellar. It revealed the craning neck and slack jaw of Gregory,
the covetous glittering eyes and incredulous smile of Prince John, the
scared faces of the huddling peasants. Then there was a crash that shook
the earth. Battlements rocked, pavements cracked, blocks of stone leaped
into the air like a fountain of masonry. When fire encounters high
explosives in a tunnel the results are remarkable. Torches dropped or
were blown out, and stumbling, cursing men ran right and left--anywhere
to escape the pelting stones. Padraig, holding to his master's arm,
guided him out of the gate and toward the sound of trampling hoofs upon
a little hillock. There they found Edrupt, Guy and Alan struggling with
their frantic horses. Swart came up with two more horses, and soon the
party was beyond all danger of pursuit.
When the stunned and bewildered Templars recovered their breath, they
saw nothing of the alchemist or of his disciple. It was felt to be just
and right if they had been carried off bodily by the foul fiend. No one
else was missing, though broken heads and bruises were everywhere.
Only when dawn paled the heavens did the boldest of John's mercenaries
venture back to the place of terror.
There was a great hole in the rear wall of the cellar, and among the
ruins lay shining heaps of gold--not bezants or zecchins, but wedges
and bars of a strange reddish hue. They touched it warily; it was not
red-hot. They filled their pouches, and others came and did likewise.
The hard-riding veterans had had no opportunity to plunder for more than
a year, and John had little money for himself and none for them. When
Gregory came on the scene, white and shaking with rage, and somewhat
damaged about the face from flying stones, it was too late to hide his
ingots. Gold of Spain or of Beelzebub, it was all one to John Sansterre.
What little the troopers had left went into the gaping leather bags of
their master, while Gregory looked on, grinding his teeth.
It was not in the nature of Prince John to believe much in miracles, but
it suited him to accept this one, whole. With a jesting compliment upon
the success of the formula and an intimation that he would like more
such entertainment, John departed next day well pleased with his
perquisition.
All this came duly to the ears of Swart the drover, and was told by him
when he came by Edrupt's house a few days later.
“How did it happen so suitably, Padraig of my heart?” asked Tomaso, his
deep eyes twinkling.
Padraig chuckled in pure delight. “I guessed that if our Apples of Sodom
were properly ripe they'd blow a hole in the treasury wall. Those Norman
thieves are not the men to balk at a little brimstone, and I figured
that Master Gregory would be too busy to think of us for awhile. He took
that formula for himself. Much good may he get of it. In place o' the
copper and sulphur and nitre and the like I set down our cipher--snakes
and toads and scorpions, Maltese cocks, unicorn's blood and so on. The
cellarer said there was a lot o' foreign gold locked up in there, and
that must ha' been what was heaved out. I warrant there'll be no more
Black Magic in Temple Assheton.”
THE EBBING TIDE
The sun has gone from the heights of heaven,
The knights a-tilting no longer ride,
The sails are vanished, the beaches empty--
There is nothing left but the ebbing tide.
At dawn we sounded our heady challenge,
At noon our blood beat high i' the sun,
At eve we rode where the wolf-pack follow--
The night is falling, our course is run.
But the tide runs out through the gates of sunset,
And the living fires of Atlantis glow
Between the clouds and the long sea-level,
Beyond the waters we used to know.
Hy-Brasail gleams with its towers of beryl,
Tourmaline, hyacinth, topaz and pearl,
Free to the King if he have but the pass-word,
Free to the veriest low-born churl.
For Earth levels all who have known her and loved her,
And the soul fares forth where the great stars guide
On the viewless path of the calling waters--
Out to Hy-Brasail upon the tide!
XVI
THE END OF A PILGRIMAGE
Eleanor and Roger sat together in their own especial loop-hole window.
When that window was new and they were little, the great stone hall with
its massive arches was unfamiliar and lonely to them, and they liked to
sit apart in this nook that seemed made for them. Four steps led up to
it, a stone seat was within it, and it was at a comfortable distance
from the warmth of the fire. Sitting there, they could look out upon the
changeful beautiful landscape, or down upon the doings in the hall.
Now all the land was blanketed with heavy snow. The tree-trunks were
charcoal-black under the stars; lights twinkled in the huts at the foot
of the hill; the frozen river made no sound beneath the castle wall.
Cattle and sheep were snug and safe in the byres, guarded by the wise
watch-dogs. Very far away in the woods an owl hooted.
It was the beginning of Yule, in that breathing-time before the holiday
begins, when one gets the fine aroma of its pleasure. The festivities
this year would be greater than ever before, for a new banquet-hall was
to be opened with the Christmas feast. This hall was the realized dream
of years. Thus far the only place for entertainments had been the hall
of the keep, which was also the living-room of the household. The new
hall was a separate one-story building, not unlike a barn in shape,
spacious enough for thirty or forty guests with their retainers and
servants. Its red tiled roof, raised upon seasoned beams two or three
feet thick, made an imposing show. The doorway took in almost half of
one end and was lofty enough for a standard-bearer to come in without
dipping his banner. There was a fireplace near the middle of one side,
with a hooded stone arch to draw the smoke upward and outward. Opposite
was a musicians' gallery of paneled oak, supported by corbels of stone
placed about eight feet above the floor. A dais was built at the other
end of the building from the entrance, for the master's table, and
from this a smaller door opened into a stone passageway leading to the
castle, while near it another door, leading to the kitchens, was placed.
The stone walls were wainscoted about halfway up, and plastered above,
the plaster being first painted a golden brown and then decorated with a
pattern of stiff small flowers and leaves in green, red, bright blue
and a little gilding. The floor was of stone blocks laid in a pattern of
black and gray, and two steps led from the dais to the lower part of the
hall. At intervals along the upper part of the walls were cressets of
wrought iron in which to set torches, and above the dais were silver
sconces for large wax candles. At intervals also were hooks of
ornamental iron-work, from which to hang tapestries by their metal
rings.
Eleanor had spent the greater part of the afternoon helping her mother
get out the sets of tapestries reserved for holiday occasions, among
them some which had been kept for this very hall. Not all were the work
of the lady herself. Some were woven and embroidered by her maids under
her direction, others were gifts from friends, and the superb piece
which hung above the dais and represented the marriage of Ulysses and
Penelope had been woven in Saumur and was the gift of the King. The
chairs of state with their ebony or ivory footstools were placed, the
candles in the sconces, the rushes and sweet herbs had been strewn upon
the floor. Even the holiday meats and pastries were cooked or made ready
for cooking. Until after Twelfth Night the only work done would be the
necessary duties of each day.
There was shouting and laughter in the courtyard. In came most of the
boys and young men of the place, bearing the great Yule log into the
hall. Collet the maid, who had just come in with her mistress, bearing
the Yule candle, was sent to get the charred remnant of last year's log.
Both log and candle would burn through the twelve holidays without being
quite consumed, and the bit that was left would be saved to light next
year's fires. These familiar homely ceremonies were not for the stately
untouched newness of the banquet-room.
Supper was but just over, and the roasted crab-apples were spluttering
in the bowls of brown ale, when the mummers came, capering in their
very best fashion and habited in antic robes whose pattern--if not the
costume itself--had come down from past generations. These actors were
village clowns who had seen such pageants in their boyhood, and they
played their rude drama as they had seen it then, with perhaps a new
song or two and a few speeches to tickle the ears of the new audience.
All the household and many of the villagers crowded in after them
to look and laugh and make remarks more or less humorous about the
performance. The lord of the castle and his family disposed themselves
to give their countenance to the merrymaking, and Sir Walter ordered
the steward to see that the players had a good supper. He himself would
distribute some money among them when the time came. Then they would go
on to give the play wherever else they could hope for an audience.
The drama was supposed to be founded on the life of Saint George, but
no one could say with truth that it was very much like the legend. First
came a herald tooting on a cow-horn, to proclaim the entrance of the
champion, who was Clement the carpenter mounted on a hobby-horse and
armed with wooden sword and painted buckler. There was much giggling and
whispering among the maids, directed at the demure black-eyed Madelon,
of the still-room. This may have been a reason why Saint George stumbled
so desperately over his rather long speech. His challenge was at last
finished, and then was heard a discordant clashing of tambourines and
horse-bells, supposed to indicate Saracen music. In cantered a turbaned
Turk on another hobby,--black this time--and in another long speech very
smoothly delivered defied the saint to mortal combat. There was more
tittering, for Tom the blacksmith was also an admirer of that minx
Madelon. The fight was a very lively one, and Saint George had some
trouble in holding his own.
When the Saracen lay gasping for breath (very naturally, the victor
having placed his foot upon his breast) the saint somewhat awkwardly
expressed sorrow for his deed and sighed for a doctor. There was a
burst of laughter and applause as Ralph the bowyer, the comedian of the
company, came limping in, got up in the character of an old quack who
had physicked half the spectators. He bled and bandaged and salved
and dosed the fallen warrior, keeping up a running fire of remarks the
while, until the wounded man arose and went prancing off as good as
new. There was no dragon, but Giles the miller appeared as Beelzebub to
avenge the defeat of the paynim, and was routed in fine style. At the
end a company of waits sang carols while the performers got their breath
and repaired damages. The cream of the comedy, to the friends of the
wicked Madelon, lay in the fact that she had the day before given her
promise to Ralph, binding him to say naught to his rivals until the
mumming was safely over.